Family in Progress
by kmj1989
Summary: A collection of oneshots about a family coming together within the universe of Daddy's Little Girl and All Grown Up. They aren't needed to understand, but they do go together.
1. Phil 1

**AN: Ta-da! Here is the first installment of Family in Progress, a collection of oneshots surrounding Emily and her family. And I'm only going to say this once. I don't own the MCU. Sadly.**

Rain was always a double-edged sword for those living on the streets. On the one hand, it meant that passers-by were in a hurry and didn't pay attention to what was around them, making it easy to lift a wallet here, a watch there. On the other hand, it meant that, for those without warm homes waiting for them, there was no escaping it, or the cold it brought with. And for ten-year-old Emily, she was no exception.

Shivering on a doorstep, she carefully watched those around her. She needed to hurry, since the little store with the nice owner was closing in about half an hour. But she needed to be careful, so she didn't attract attention.

"There," she thought, seeing an average-looking man. In fact, he was so average-looking that he stood out to her. Average height, average build, average hair, average-looking trench coat and umbrella. "Perfect," she thought, though she couldn't exactly say why.

Getting up slowly, but not too slowly, she then angled her body to intercept him just when he would be in the midst of a crowd of people waiting at the corner for the lights to change. She slipped her slim hand into his pocket, almost surprised to find his wallet in his coat pocket. She had thought to make a second pass, going for the pants pocket, but apparently she didn't need to.

Emily closed her hand around the wallet, swiftly pulling it out. Just as she was about to slip away into the crowd, a hand clamped around hers. "I think you have something of mine," the man said in a mild voice.

Emily froze. She'd never been caught before, at least not since she'd been very small. She slowly looked up into the man's pale blue eyes, feeling like she couldn't breathe, let alone move.

"If you give it back, I might just share some of what's in it," the man told her kindly.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Emily told him defiantly, despite the fact that her hand was still around his wallet.

To her everlasting surprise, the man laughed. "You've got spunk, kid. Can I buy you something to eat?"

Emily was so confused. Why was this man being nice to her? She had tried to steal from him, and he was offering to buy her dinner. What was going on?

"C'mon. I know a pretty good little diner around the corner here. It's actually where I was heading anyway. Let's get some dinner," the man said, then deftly turned her around, slipped his arm over her shoulder, and steered her to the mentioned diner.

Emily started shivering the moment they entered the diner and the warm air hit her bare arms. Noticing this, and the fact that Emily had no jacket despite it raining and being September in New York City, the man took off his scarf and wrapped it around her thin shoulders. The shivers abated a little, and she gave him a small but grateful smile.

"Phil! It's been a while, sugar," a wide woman announced as she came to the hostess stand.

"I've been out of town on business for a while, Flo," the man, apparently named Phil, replied. "Could we get some hot chocolate while we look at our menus?"

"Of course!" Flo said, looking at a dripping Emily with warmth. "Two extra large hot cocoas, coming right up!" she added, after showing them to a booth.

Once they were alone again, Emily looked at the man across from her. "Why are you doing this?" slipped out of her mouth before she even realized it.

"Because you look like you could use a friend," he said simply, then browsed his menu like taking stray children to dinner was a regular occurrence for him.

"I don't need a friend," she said stubbornly.

"Really? I think the grilled BLT sounds good. What would you like?" he asked, ignoring her mild outburst.

"I want an answer," she demanded. "Why are you being nice to me? What's the catch?"

"I just wanted to help you, that's all," Phil told her. "Have you decided what you want?"

Realizing that she wasn't going to be getting a better answer anytime soon, Emily looked at her menu. "At least I can read," she thought, silently grateful that she'd been able to go to school some. Her eyes ran over the list, skipping any unfamiliar words, before landing on something very familiar.

"Here you go, sugars. Two hot cocoas, with extra whipped cream, just the way you like it, Phil," Flo said, sliding one drink to each of the table's occupants without spilling so much as a drop. "Do you know what you'd like, or do you need another minute?"

Phil looked at Emily, who then said, "I want the mac and cheese, please." Even the thought of the cheesy goodness had her stomach growling in anticipation. Of course, breakfast had been a long time ago, and rather small.

"Can I get the grilled BLT, please? Thanks, Flo," Phil said, handing the woman both menus.

"You got it," she said with a wink, then sashayed back to the kitchen.

Silence reigned at the table, before Phil finally broke it. "Well, you know my name. Can I know yours?"

Emily thought for a moment, trying to decide if it would be okay to answer. She'd always been able to trust her instincts, but there was always the first time that she would be wrong. "It's Emily," she eventually answered.

"That's a pretty name. It fits you, Emily," he told her.

Emily flushed a bit at the praise. "Thanks," she mumbled, before taking a huge gulp of her cocoa. Immediately, warmth spread throughout her body, a feeling she hadn't really felt since at least August.

Phil made light conversation as they waited for their food, but Emily just listened. To him, of course, there was much to learn by what he was saying, but mostly to her instincts. There were no screaming red flags, nothing that suggested he was more than a kind-hearted man giving a poor girl a meal.

Once their meals did arrive, Emily practically dived into her macaroni and cheese. After about three bites in thirty seconds, she started feeling Phil's eyes on her. He grinned, knowing he'd been caught staring. "How's that mac and cheese?" he asked, then taking a crunching bite out of his sandwich.

"Good," she said around the noodles in her mouth.

"Good," he grinned back, with a little smudge of mayo on his top lip. She giggled when he licked it off dramatically.

Phil chattered for the rest of the meal, and slowly drew Emily out a little. He asked her questions, but none that were too specific that threw off red flags for her. Flo brought them out pie, also topped with whipped cream.

Emily was surprised to look out the window and see that it was dark outside already. "Well, Flo, we've probably hogged your table for long enough," Phil told the nice lady.

"Yes, because we're so busy," she said with a grin. "You know you're always welcome around here, Phil. And you, too, sugar," she added, looking to Emily.

"Oh, um, I…" was all Emily could stutter out.

"Anytime you're hungry, you just come right on in, okay, sugar? Or even if you just need a minute to warm up," Flo told her.

Really, what was going on? First, the guy she tried to pickpocket takes her to dinner, then a restaurant lady tells her she can come anytime she wants? Something had to be wrong, the street girl decided.

"Yeah, sure," she said, rather suspicious. After all, most people didn't treat homeless kids this way.

"Well, Emily, can I take you anywhere? Someplace dry, perhaps?" Phil asked her.

"No. I can make it from here. It's not too far." Emily most definitely didn't want Phil to follow her. Just because he had been nice to her didn't mean he didn't have a hidden agenda.

"Okay, well, if you ever need some place to stay for the night, here's my address. I might not be there, but you are always welcome to stay, anytime, night or day," he told her, handing her a napkin with directions on it. Emily vowed to never use it.

…

It was a week later, and it hadn't stopped raining since her dinner with Phil. Emily was miserable. She tried to find dry places, but all the good ones were taken. Most were defended quite violently. So she was huddled on the doorstep of a closed up shop, trying to stay under the protection the awning afforded. But considering the fact that the rain was now blowing sideways, she was very wet.

As she huddled, the napkin in her pocket seemed to burn, reminding her of Phil's offer. She tried to ignore it, but the colder she got, the more she thought about it. Finally, after an hour of huddling on the stoop, she made up her mind. "After all," she thought, "even if he does turn me into child services, at least I'll be dry. And I can always run away again. Once it stops raining."

Emily made her way uptown, dodging what little traffic was about. It took her a while, but she finally made it to the building Phil had directed her to. But instead of going inside and up through the elevator, she clambered onto the dumpster at the side of the building. From there, she scaled the fire escape, making it to the northeast corner apartment on the seventeenth floor. It only took her probably fifteen minutes, and there had been merely three close calls. She considered it quite the accomplishment, sparing a moment to pat herself on the back, before going to the window.

The lock was a simple one, and she managed to slip her little knife in the crack, managing to pop the slide in no time at all. After that, it was easy peasy to push the window up, throw her bag inside, and hop down. She was just closing the window when she heard a voice. "I was wondering when you'd show up. I guessed yesterday. Apparently, you're more stubborn than I thought."

 **AN: Yes, Emily is stubborn! But she's got to be to deal with the Avengers, right? Anyway, here is the first installment. There will probably be one or two per family member. But I don't think I'm going to do each family member, because that would be a lot! So far, I'm thinking one or two more with Coulson, a chapter with Clint, and probably two with Tasha. And possibly one more at the end of All Grown Up, just to tie everything together. Thanks for reading!**


	2. Phil 2

Over the next few months, I generally spent the night in Phil's apartment. Not every night, mind you, because I didn't want to be too predictable, but enough that I almost got used to sleeping in a warm bed and having food to eat. At first, I would sneak out around four or five in the morning, but as I got used to Phil, I stayed later. Soon enough, I was sharing breakfast with him and getting to know him better. I realized then that he legitimately wanted to help me, not wanting anything in return.

Some days, Phil wouldn't be there when I got to the apartment. He would always leave me a note, telling me how many days he estimated being gone and that I could help myself to anything in the kitchen. He kept it well stocked for me, with nearly a whole cupboard full of mac and cheese. Those were the days that I didn't stay long, feeling weird to be there without him. And I was afraid I would tip off the neighbors and get the cops called on me. But I never did.

Once a week or so, I would find some new article of clothing left in what had become my room in Phil's apartment. It was never brand new, just gently used, probably from the thrift store around the corner, but it was always warm. Which was definitely nice, since winter had come early and fierce.

About a week before Christmas, I left the apartment early, since Phil wasn't there. But it was the last day he was supposed to be gone, so I planned on going back early that evening. I liked hanging out with him. He always told funny stories.

I felt a little off that morning, my chest feeling a little tight, but I brushed it off. After all, street kids couldn't get sick. If you got sick, you either died or went back into the system. Neither option looked terribly appealing to me, so I simply tucked myself deeper into my hoodie and wrapped my scarf a little snugger.

Making my way back to my usual haunt, I kept an eye open for any potential marks. I mean, even if I did have a good place to sleep and a meal or two didn't mean I could slack off. I had to feed myself the rest of the time. So I continued my day job, watching and waiting for someone who looked like they had a few extra dollars to spare. As focused as I was on my job, however, not to mention not being at the top of my game, I was definitely not paying attention to the other street kids around me.

"Where'd you get the new hoodie, huh, Emily? We all know you're not good enough to steal that, so why don't you go home to your nice new family and stay off the streets," Rex, the worst bully I'd ever met, taunted. Nobody actually knew his real name, or at least no one admitted to it. He'd picked that one, claiming that it sounded tough; I seriously doubted he knew it meant king. He wasn't smart enough for that, though he would have loved it even more.

"Leave me alone, Rex," I huffed, losing sight of my mark because of his interruption.

"Oh, you think you can talk back to me now? Just because you come back from sleeping in a nice warm bed and have these fancy new clothes now? Yeah, I don't think so. Boys, you know what to do," he said, gesturing to his three henchmen. Henchmen who were bigger and even dumber than Rex was, which is saying something.

Five minutes of kicking, punching, scratching, and biting later (I wasn't the one biting, by the way), I found myself dumped in a little alley, with only the shirt and pants I'd been wearing. Rex and his goons even took my shoes and socks, though there was no way any of the boys would fit in them. I was also soaked, since they had been so kind as to dump me in a puddle. My chest hurt, from their blows, but also from the illness I felt coming on. And my head hurt from being punched several times. I tried not to close my eyes, but the darkness came anyway. "Just five minutes," I told myself, after I had pulled myself out of the puddle and into a little pile of newspapers by the dumpster there. "Just five minutes, and then I'll go to Phil's."

…

When I opened my eyes, or really eye, since my left was now swollen shut, I knew it had been more than five minutes, but I couldn't find it in me to care. I simply pulled a few newspapers over me and closed my eye again.

…

The next time I woke was from the deep cough ripping through my body. I was so hot, but freezing at the same time. And so very tired. So tired.

…

"Emily? Emily, sweetheart, what are you doing out here? Emily, come on, open those eyes. Emily, look at me!" Phil sounded very concerned, and I wanted to open my eyes to assure him that I would be fine, but they were just so heavy. I couldn't do it.

…

"She's got bronchial pneumonia," a soft woman's voice said. "Probably from living on the streets. This winter has been very harsh, and if she's been out there, it's a wonder that she's not worse."

"She's been spending most nights here," Phil said. "I've been trying to get her to trust me, but she still doesn't stay here all the time. I don't know what I would have done if I hadn't found her."

…

For several days, I drifted in and out of sleep. Well, really, it was probably unconsciousness. But whenever I would wake, even without opening my eyes, I knew Phil was right there next to my bed. He would talk to me all the time. I'm pretty sure he would do it even when I was asleep, since my dreams were filled with his voice. And when he stopped talking, I could hear his snores. It was the most comforting feeling I'd ever felt in my life. But that may have been the drugs talking.

…

I finally really woke up, not knowing how long I'd been at Phil's apartment. I knew I was at Phil's apartment, because I recognized my comfy bed. But I didn't know where Phil was. He wasn't there, sitting next to me, like he had for the whole time I'd been asleep.

A deep, hacking cough jumped out of me, shaking my whole body. It lasted for several moments, exhausting me in the process. But when I was finally done coughing, I slumped back into the pillow. And caught sight of Phil rushing in through the doorway.

He had his sleeves rolled up, tie gone, and hair rumpled. He also wore a flowered apron that I was sure I'd never seen in the apartment before. And in his hands was a tray, that he put on the nightstand next to me hurriedly. "Emily, how are you feeling?" he asked, putting his hand immediately on my forehead.

"Peachy," I rasped out. The sound of my own voice surprised me a bit, since it was so gravelly. But Phil didn't seem to care.

"You scared me, young lady. Do you know how much I worried when you didn't show up the night I got back? You always come when I get back. It's a good thing you've told me where you spend most of your time, or I would never have found you. What happened to you?" This all came out in a rush, even a bit harsh, something that was very unexpected for Phil. He was normally calm; I'd never seen him this ruffled. In fact, I hadn't thought it was possible for him to be ruffled.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, feeling a little upset. It almost seemed like he was yelling at me, something he'd never done in the four months or so I'd known him. "I didn't mean to not come. I was trying to, but I was just so tired."

Phil instantly softened. "I'm sorry, Emily. I didn't mean to get upset; it's just that you scared me. And then I found you in an alley, huddled in newspapers, with hardly any clothes on, and covered in bruises, and you wouldn't wake up. I was really worried about you, that's all."

"Sorry," I mumbled again, but feeling a bit more calm. He wasn't mad after all, he was actually worried about me. That was a new experience for me.

"You've nothing to be sorry for," he grinned. "And now, I've got some soup for you. Tomato, just like you like it."

"With grilled cheese?" I asked hopefully.

"Not yet. You haven't eaten anything in days, so it'll take a while for you to get back to normal. But as soon as you can, I'll make you the best grilled cheese sandwich you've ever had. Deal?"

"Deal," I replied. Phil then helped me sit up, propping me up with pillows. Then, he placed the tray on my lap, making sure I was settled before he let go.

I was starving, so I wanted to just guzzle the soup, but after two spoonfuls, I found I couldn't even lift my arm anymore. Just when I was about to cry in frustration (I was really tired, okay? Give a girl a break!), Phil gently took the bowl and spoon from me.

It took us about ten minutes or so, but we managed to get that bowl taken care of. And when we were done, I was exhausted, like I'd just run the New York Marathon. Phil then took the tray from my lap, moved the pillows out from under me, and pulled the blankets up to my chin. I was nearly asleep when I felt him brush a kiss across my forehead. "Goodnight, Em. I love you."

Even though I was so sick I slept through most of it, that was the best Christmas I had ever had.

 **AN: So here's Daddy Phil. I hope you like it, since it was kind of hard to write. The next one will be Clint and Emily getting to know each other. It'll be fun!**

 **Thanks to all who've followed and favorited, and especially to for her lovely review!**


	3. Clint 1

Six Months Later-

Phil and I had reach an agreement: he wouldn't make me go to school, as long as I did my schoolwork online. I was perfectly happy with that arrangement, and after I had told three different teachers they were wrong, and proved it, so was Phil. After a lot of research, he found the perfect program for me. It let me go as advanced as I wanted, not holding me back like regular school had.

So, there I was, doing my homework, an essay on Shakespeare and his influence on the English language, when the door opened. I knew that only three people in the world had a key to the apartment, and the only one who didn't live there was Phil's friend, Maria, who checked up on me when Phil was gone. Phil wasn't due back from wherever he was for work, and Maria wasn't supposed to be checking on me until later that evening. Which meant I went into street kid mode.

As quietly as I could, I grabbed the heaviest thing I could see and easily move, though I wasn't sure why Phil had a rolling pin on the counter. It's not like he ever made anything other than grilled cheese sandwiches. Anyway, I sneaked toward the front door. I probably didn't need to sneak, since whoever had come in certainly wasn't worried about making noise.

As soon as I was in sight of the front door, I ran out, screaming like a banshee and brandishing my weapon. The guy didn't look like a thief, but then, I knew looks could be deceiving.

I nearly brained the guy, since he'd been crouching down to get something out of the bag at his feet. But faster than I thought possible, his hand flew up and grabbed the rolling pin, stopping it about an inch away from his head. "Who are you?" he asked, sounding very confused.

"Who are you?" Why was he confused? He was the one breaking and entering.

"Phil didn't say anything about a kid," he said, not answering my question.

"How do you know Phil?" I asked, one hand now on my hip, while the other gripped my trusty rolling pin.

"Well, how do you know Phil?" he countered, looking about as adamant as I felt.

"Phil's my dad," slipped out before I really thought about it.

"You call your dad by his name? And since when did Phil have a kid?"

"I'm adopted," I answered slowly. "Now, who are you?"

"I'm Clint, I work with Phil," he answered back. "My apartment's being fumigated, so he said I could crash here for a while."

"It would have been nice if he had told me," I muttered.

Just then, the phone in the kitchen rang. I gave Clint one last, mistrusting look, then went to answer it. Not many people had that number, so I had a pretty good guess who it could be. "Hello?"

"Hey, Em, I'm so sorry about this, but I'm going to be gone a bit longer than we planned. Things got a little… complicated, so I'm probably going to be gone an extra week. But one of my friends will be staying there. His name is Clint, and he needs a place to stay for a bit, so you won't be too lonely. He should be there soon," Phil told me, from wherever he was in the world. It must have been pretty remote, since the line kept crackling, though not enough to keep me from understanding him.

"Too late," I replied dryly. "He got here five minutes ago and I almost knocked his head off. You really need to warn me sooner, Phil, if this is going to happen again."

"I'll keep that in mind," he said, and I could tell he was holding back laughter. "Can I talk to Clint for a second?"

"Sure," I said, before turning back to the other guy. "He wants to talk to you."

Clint came to the kitchen and took the phone from me. "Hey, Coulson… Yeah, she nearly took my head off with a rolling pin… Good arm, sloppy with the yelling, though. The only reason she got close enough to almost hit me was because I was expecting to be alone… Yeah, you might want to warn a guy next time… She's Emily?! I thought you were talking about a dog! Hell, Coulson, you brought a girl home? Wow, you're braver than I thought… Yeah, I'll keep an eye out… Yeah, see you, Couslon."

As soon as the phone hit the receiver, I burst out with "You thought I was a dog? What was he saying about me?"

A slow grin crept over Clint's face. "I think you and I are going to have a lot to talk about."

 **AN: I know, it's a short one, but that was just too perfect of a place to leave it. The rest are coming shortly. Thanks to all who've followed/favorited, and a big thanks to KnowInsight, , and PurpleReader29 for the reviews!**


	4. Phil and Clint

Eighteen Months Later-

"Harry Potter again? Please, I'm begging you, something, anything, other than the Boy Who Lived," Clint moaned from the other couch.

"Hey, I didn't invite you to this little invalid party, so you can just shut up and deal," I griped, then groaned when talking put strain on my poor swollen face.

"How are my patients doing?" Dad asked, bringing his trusty tray in with tall cups, bowls of soup and a stack of grilled cheese.

"Merry freaking Christmas," I muttered, careful not to move my jaw.

"I'm sorry, Em, but Clint fractured his leg in four different places. He can't be on his own right now," Dad apologized.

"I could, but you won't let me," whined the manboy in question.

"He's not the problem," I admitted. "I don't mind Clint being here. I just hate being sick." And then, as some twisted punctuation to my comment, a deep, chesty cough ripped its way out of my body.

"I know, Sweetheart," Dad sighed, rubbing my back in an attempt to alleviate the cough that was trying to kill me. "Dr. Beckenbauer says that you have bronchitis again, that last time weakened your lungs, which means you're more susceptible to getting it again. And you have a double double ear infection."

"How do you have a double double ear infection?" Clint asked in confusion.

"You have two infections in both ears," I answered shortly. "It hurts, really badly. And I don't like it," I finished in a whine.

"I know. But it's time for more medicine for both of you, so drink up," Dad said, handing us both glasses of juice and handfuls of pills. "And no, Clint, you can't have any beer. You can't mix beer with painkillers."

"I hate doctors," he muttered, before tossing back his pills quickly and chasing them with OJ.

I envied his ease. There was no way I could open my mouth big enough to get all of the pills down at once. Instead, I had to stuff a pill in between my lips, then sip some juice, then repeat until I managed to get all the pills down. Thankfully, the antibiotic for my bronchitis worked for my ears, too. I think I had Dad's secret government agency to thank for that.

Soon enough, the three of us were settled in, Clint and me on different couches, Dad in his chair, all with yummy steaming soup and sandwiches. And, since I had the remote, and Clint couldn't really move with his leg in a cast from the hip down, I triumphantly pushed play. Clint groaned theatrically as the music began to play, but I knew he secretly liked it. After all, how else would he know Oliver Wood's name to tease me about having a crush on him?

 **AN: It's another short one, but I couldn't resist. But the next one coming will be Tasha, and much longer, more like my normal chapter length. Thanks for the follows/favorites, and a big shout out to AngelfromBeyondBelow, PurpleReader29, and KnowInsight for the reviews. You all rock!**


	5. Tasha 1

Fifteen Months Later-

I eyed Dad's laptop, knowing it was probably a bad idea, but I decided I didn't care. After all, he should know better than to leave his shady government agency issued laptop with a fourteen year old. Especially on her birthday. Sure, he'd made some kind of lame excuse about a new recruit needing his help, blah blah blah. But really, I was so tired of hearing about this new recruit, Romanoff or something, from both Dad and Clint. And this was the perfect opportunity to get back at them.

In hindsight, hacking a shady government agency on my dad's laptop was probably a really bad idea. But imagining the look on Dad's boss's face when he opened his computer to see Oliver Wood's face was definitely worth it. At least until Dad got home.

"Emily Rose Coulson! What on earth possessed you to hack into my computer and change the entire network to Oliver Wood's face?" Though I had never seen Dad so angry, I was a bit pleased that I had passed on some HP info. But mostly terrified.

Dad's lecture lasted for a record forty-five minutes, only to ever be surpassed when I told him, at fifteen, I wanted to be an agent. "You are banned from any and all books and electronic devices for three months," was my punishment. "Other than schoolwork, of course. And if this ever happens again, or anything similar, you'll be going back to public school."

That sobered me quickly. Dad had promised that I would never have to go back to a public school, so for him to even threaten to go back on his word was huge. I was also sent to bed at seven o'clock without any books, something he'd never done before. Those extra hours staring into the dark were spent wishing frantically for time travel so I could go back and stop myself from doing it, but no such luck.

Dad woke me the next morning at the ungodly hour of five o'clock. "Since I obviously can't trust you here alone," he said, thrusting the knife a little deeper in my heart, "you're coming with me to work. I've got someone who can look after you."

"I don't need a babysitter," I whined, trying to pull up my blankets back over my face. No such luck.

"Obviously you do, otherwise I wouldn't have Oliver Wood as my wallpaper," he replied, pulling the blankets off me completely. "We're leaving at seven, so you have plenty of time to get ready."

I was a zombie all through my shower and sloppily throwing my hair into a ponytail. The red curls were sort of everywhere, but I didn't care. It wasn't like I was going to meet the love of my life at Dad's work.

Dad was eating his cereal calmly when I shuffled into the kitchen. The newspaper was open next to his bowl, and I knew he was looking for potential problems. Other than me, I mean. Apparently, he didn't find any, since he soon closed the paper and looked at me. "Are you going to get some breakfast?" he asked, eyebrow raised in disapproval. I was thinking it was stuck in that position, as it had been that way since he'd come home the night before.

"Ugh," I moaned, not used to being awake that early. After all, it didn't matter when I got up usually, as long as I got my schoolwork done.

"There's Cocoa Pebbles in the cupboard," he said with a sigh, turning back to his boring granola.

I instantly felt bad. Dad had most probably gotten them for me for my birthday, since they were my favorite, and I'd ruined it by acting like a spoiled brat. But I was still upset with him for missing my birthday, so I wasn't about to apologize.

Instead, I simply pushed the box aside and grabbed the Chex, then a bowl and spoon and joined him at the bar. I wasn't going to acknowledge his birthday cereal. His disappointed sigh told me he knew what I was doing, and it was almost enough to make me get the other cereal. Almost.

Stubbornly, I dug into my Chex. Since I was banned from electronics and books, there was nothing to do but read the back of the cereal box. Over and over.

Soon enough, we were in a cab heading downtown. A block from Times Square, we got out, walking the rest of the way to SHIELD headquarters. Dad and I were waved through, though I got a few glares. It must have been "Hedwig's Theme" that earned me the glares. After all, if I'd had Oliver Wood's beautiful face to stare at the whole day before, I'd have been in a pretty good mood. But hearing the same song on repeat for eight hours might have made me a bit tetchy, too.

Dad took me to Omega Team's headquarters. Waiting in the gym part, standing perfectly still, was another redhead, one about ten years or so older than me. She eyed me, and I eyed her, not really knowing what was going on. "Romanoff reporting for duty, Sir," she said finally, while still eyeing me.

"Thank you. Romanoff, this is my daughter. Emily, this is Natasha Romanoff, our newest recruit. She'll be watching you, making sure you stick to your restrictions," Dad said, and I swore I could see a smile playing around the corners of his lips.

"Babysitting duty? That's what you're relegating me to?" she exploded, her calm and collected facade crumbling to dust.

"Yes, babysitting duty," Dad said calmly, the smile gone now. "Maybe this will teach you to follow orders and not go off on your own."

I tuned the rest of the argument out. Instead, I went to the little office where I'd done homework before. Settling in for the day in a corner across from the door, I dug into my bag. I was halfway through my calculus problems when Romanoff stormed in. "Sit at the table," she snapped.

Ignoring her, I simply plugged more numbers into my calculator. "Sit at the table," she ordered again, even snappier than before.

"Why?" I asked, not even bothering to look up at her.

"Because I can't guarantee that you're not on a website you're not supposed to be if you're in the corner," she spat. "Sit at the table."

Ignoring her again, I kept working. Until my calculator was snatched from my grasp. "Give me back my calculator!" I yelled.

"Sit at the table, and I will," she retorted.

Determined not to give in, I simply did the problems without the calculator. After all, I didn't need it, per se; it just sped things along. That was, until Romanoff took my notebook and textbook and slammed them onto the table. "Sit at the table," she growled.

Looking back, I really should have been scared, but I wasn't. I was simply pissed. As loudly as I could, I collected my things and threw them onto the table. Pulling a chair out had never been so noisy. And of course, I sat across from her, just because I could. "Sit on this side," she huffed.

"You told me to sit at the table," I snarled. "If you don't like it, you move."

I had a point, and she knew it. Grumbling in what sounded like Russian, she moved to sit next to me. I allowed myself the tiniest grin in celebration.

I tried to turn some music on, but Romanoff quickly squashed that, stating that "It's not needed for your schoolwork." When I tried to say that it helped me concentrate, she merely repeated herself. For the next five minutes. I finally gave in and closed the player.

We spent the next four hours in near silence. The only sounds were the clicking of computer keys, pencil on paper, pages turning, or a knife being sharpened. Yes, Romanoff spent four hours sharpening a knife. It wasn't the same knife. No, she kept pulling more out of her uniform, though I couldn't figure out where she put them all. Just every now and then, I would look over, and she would be on a new knife.

Lunchtime hit, and so did hunger. "I'm going to get some food," I said, shutting my book and standing up.

"You're not going anywhere," Romanoff replied. "Not until twelve hundred hours."

"Really? It's eleven-fifty, I think it's okay if I get lunch a few minutes early," I retorted, wondering where on earth Dad had dug her up.

"You're not leaving until twelve hundred hours," she repeated, crossing her arms in a challenge.

I narrowed my eyes in response. Was she really going to be that psychotically fanatical about ten minutes? And I was really hungry. So, I headed over to the door.

Somehow, and I totally didn't see it, she was in between me and the door in about a second. "How did you do that?" I asked, partly in awe, partly in mild terror.

"You still have eight minutes," was her only reply, though I was pretty sure a smirk was threatening to come out.

Glaring at her, I realized she was really going to be this fanatical, so I headed back to my books. I would have tried to get out anyway, but she kind of scared me. To pieces. Especially with all those knives.

At exactly twelve o'clock, Romanoff spoke. "We can go get lunch now." And then she proceeded to shepherd me down the corridors like I was some kind of child, watching every move I made, even if it was just grabbing food at the canteen. It was humiliating. Especially when Clint came and sat down with us, entirely too amused with the situation. "Hello, Emily, Romanoff."

"Barton," was the only greeting he got from Romanoff, while I simply glared at him.

"Oh, come on, you two. You have to admit that this is pretty funny," he said, gesturing at us with a huge grin on his face.

"I don't have to admit to anything, particularly since I find nothing amusing in the situation," Romanoff stated, slicing off a piece of her chicken breast perfectly, while staring Clint down. Her precision was a bit alarming.

Clint gulped, but bravely (or stupidly) went on. "Really? I find plenty to be amused at, especially the two most stubborn females I've ever met having to spend all day together."

"Clint, if you don't want to find you wallpaper permanently changed to Harry Potter fan art, I would suggest you shut up," I told him sharply.

"You're not allowed around any tech that's not being used for schoolwork," he reminded smugly.

"I have a very long memory," I replied, just as smugly. "And I'm very good with computers."

Surprisingly, Romanoff laughed. It was also terrifying, at least until I realized she wasn't laughing at me. "You just got owned by a fourteen year old," she chortled, pointing at Clint.

He was much less amused. "Have fun spending the rest of the foreseeable future together," he ground out. "Do try not to kill each other. I'd hate to waste saving you, Romanoff."

As he stalked off, I looked at the other female. Really looked. And I suddenly realized that she wasn't all that much older than me, probably only five years or so. But the way she held herself, the way she moved, made her seem so much older. And I could tell she'd not had an easy life. I could relate. I knew hard lives made people grow up too fast, too soon. But I could also tell that she didn't want to talk about it, didn't want any pity. At least, that's what the hard glare she was currently giving me said. And I was still not happy with the situation I was in. "You done eating?" she asked, nodding to my empty tray.

I didn't answer, simply stood up and went to the garbage cans by the door. Romanoff followed, all the way back to our little part of hell.

After lunch, I attempted to tackle my French homework, having left it for last. For over a week. After an hour and a half, I had barely made a dent in it. "I hate stupid French," I muttered, lightly banging my head on the table.

"Je ne l'aurais jamais deviné," Romanoff muttered.

I whipped my head up so fast, I nearly gave myself whiplash. "You speak French?" I questioned.

"Français, russe et latin, avec un peu d'espagnol et japonais," she retorted, not looking up from the game of Tetris she'd been playing on her phone for the last hour.

I was rather loathe to ask her for help, but seeing as I'd tried everything I could to learn this stupid language, mostly to please Dad, I was desperate. "Will you help me?" I forced out.

"You want me to help you?" Romanoff was looking at me peculiarly, like I was something she'd never encountered before. When I nodded, she continued. "You must be really desperate."

"You have no idea," I groaned. "I'm a certified genius, but I cannot grasp other languages. I've tried German and Spanish, and now French, and I just can't get it. Please help me! Help me, and I will… I'll help you get on my dad's good side."

"It would appear that you don't even know how to do that," she said sardonically.

"No, I do, I was just mad at him and reacted stupidly," I groaned.

"Why were you mad at him?"

"That's a bit personal."

"Tell me why you were mad at him, and I'll help you with French. That's my deal."

I turned her offer over in my head for a moment. Really not wanting to tell her why I'd been mad at Dad warred with seriously needing to pass French. After all, if I didn't pass this class, there was no way I was graduating on schedule. "Fine. But you promise you'll help me with French if I tell you?"

"Bien sûr," was her response.

"Fine," I sighed. "I was mad at Dad, and Clint, too, really, because I thought they'd forgotten about my birthday. Well, not really forgotten, but more ignored. And I was kinda jealous of how much time they were spending with you." That last part was incredibly rushed, but somehow, I was pretty sure Romanoff had caught it all.

She looked contemplative, almost like she was mentally cataloging me or something, before saying, "Pour la prochaine heure, je ne parle pas anglais. Peut-être vous aurez alors."

"I have no idea what you're saying. You do realize this, right?"

"Qui est le point," she said smugly.

 **AN: Here's Tasha's intro! I'll be honest, it was really hard writing Emily as a spoiled brat teenager. But she had her reasons. Thanks to all of my followers and favorites, and especially to for her review!**

 **And for the translations, at least according to Google translate: I never would have guessed.**

 **French, Russian, and Latin, with a little bit of Spanish and Japanese.**

 **Of course.**

 **For the next hour, I'm not speaking English. Maybe you'll get it this way.**

 **That's the point.**


	6. Tasha, Clint, and Phil

One Month Later-

"And block, and you missed again," Romanoff said, needlessly. "And block. How do you say 'Work harder' in French?"

"Kiss my derriere," I muttered, wiping sweat from my face, but at Romanoff's stern look, I sighed. "Travailler plus dur."

"We'll work on pronunciation later, but better. But you've got to keep your arms up," she told me, as she "gently" tapped my chin. "No matter what else is going on around you, you always have to be aware of your surroundings."

We sparred for a few more moments, with her throwing random French phrases at me all the while, before she swiped my legs out from under me. I landed on the mat, hard, and just stayed there, panting. I probably looked like a rag doll someone had simply dropped, but I didn't care. At this point, everything sort of hurt. Even muscles I didn't know could hurt did.

"What did you do to her?" I looked up at the seriousness in Clint's tone to see him rushing toward the two of us on the mat.

"I didn't do anything to her. I couldn't even touch her," I said, laying my head back down.

"Not you, kid. Romanoff, what were you thinking? You can't spar with a fourteen year old like that! She can't fight like you," Clint said angrily.

"I was teaching her how to fight. It's been a rather good incentive for her good behavior, and it seemed rather impractical for the daughter of one of SHIELD's top agents to be completely untrained, defenseless." Her voice was toneless, flat, but I still was mildly offended.

"A: I'm not a small child or a dog to be rewarded for good behavior, and B: I'm not completely defenseless," I protested.

Both Clint and Romanoff barely spared me a slightly patronizing glance, before he started talking. "Did you pass this through Coulson? 'Cause I'm pretty sure he would never agree to his daughter being the punching bag of a Russian assassin. 'Scuse me, _ex_ -Russian assassin."

"If you have a problem with that, why didn't you put an arrow in my head, Hawkeye?" Romanoff's tone was mocking, but even I heard the ice behind it. I was quickly feeling rather left out of the whole conversation.

"Did you check with Coulson?" Clint repeated, his hand clenched around the bow in his hand.

"Yes, I did. I wasn't about to do something to jeopardize my standing at SHIELD. I sort of like living."

"Oh." Clint relaxed a bit, now looking mildly sheepish. "Sorry about that. It's just that Em's like a little sister to me, so I don't want anything to happen to her."

"Apology accepted." Though she said the words, her tone and tightly folded arms kinda told another story.

I looked between the two of them, wondering what had just happened. And feeling a bit like they had forgotten about me. But then Clint looked to me and grinned mischievously. "Well, kid, since Coulson gave the green light to train you, do you want to learn how to fire a gun?"

Looking back to Romanoff, I asked, "Avons nous fini?" She flicked a nod, then turned on her heel and went back in the office.

"Alright, the first thing you've got to know are the parts of a gun," Clint instructed, taking me over to where he normally did his target practice.

…

Over the next week or so, the three of us fell into an uneasy routine. All morning long, I would silently do my homework, while Romanoff stood watch. Then, after lunch, she would tutor me in French and the fine art of falling on my butt more times than I could count. When Clint would appear around two or three each afternoon, she would disappear into the office as Clint taught me more about guns and how to aim. And then we moved on to other kinds of projectiles: knives, balls, pencils, paper.

"Barton, if you've got my daughter climbing around in air shafts again, you will be filing paperwork for a week," Dad called from below us, though I had no idea how he knew that.

I looked to Clint in alarm, but he simply grinned reassuringly. Slipping his paper airplane between the vents silently, he took aim. The plane zipped neatly through the air, perfectly on target. But before it could hit Dad's head, his hand snatched it out of the air. "Barton, you have approximately three seconds to get out of here before you're running laps," Dad said calmly.

"Damn," Clint hissed, then started wiggling away.

"Time's up," Dad called, looking to the vent finally. "Four laps for teaching my daughter inappropriate ways to use her time, and four more for swearing in front of her."

"How did you even hear that?" Clint asked, giving up on the retreat and swinging the vent open. He jumped down, then reached up to help me down. "Shorty," he grinned.

"At least I haven't stopped growing," I retorted, even though I probably had. His immediate pout brought a smile to my lips.

"You didn't answer my question, Coulson. How did you hear me?" Clint asked Dad, apparently deciding to ignore me. It was times like this that made me forget he was nearly fifteen years older than me.

Though he did have a valid point. "How did you even know we were there?" I added.

"Clint's been sneaking through air ducts since he joined SHIELD, and he's been teaching you about projectiles, so it wasn't a hard leap in logic." Dad's tone was rather dry. "And I know you well enough to know what you would say when you got caught, Clint. But it's getting late and you have a date tonight, so you might want to get started on those laps. With traffic the way it is, you might just make it in time if you leave right now."

"You're serious. Eight laps? Just for that?" Clint whined.

"As a heart attack."

Clint stared at Dad for a moment, probably hoping he would change his mind, before finally turning around and jogging out the room. "Eight laps is going to take him forever, Dad," I said, trying to get a little slack for my friend.

"Yes, it is. Would you like to join him?"

"Nope. I'm good." There was no way I was going to be running eight laps of a New York City block.

"Good. Then why don't you go back down to the training room? I have a meeting with the Director in a few minutes, and I can't leave you in here alone." Dad wasn't accusing me of anything, but I still felt a stab of guilt. I knew exactly why he couldn't leave me in his office alone anymore.

"I'm really sorry about that, Dad," I said quietly.

"I know, Em. And you're going to only use your powers of hacking for good from now on, right?" he questioned, mildly teasing.

"Definitely. Maybe someday I can join SHIELD and use my hacking skills on the bad guys," I answered, finally giving voice to the thought that had been growing in the back of my mind for a while now.

"I'd like that," Dad smiled. "We can fight the bad guys together, me on the front lines, and you safe and sound at the base."

 **AN: I know this was supposed to be a Tasha centric one, but I couldn't resist showing how the three of them were fitting themselves into Emily's life. It was just too perfect! I thought Tasha being slightly jealous of Emily spending time with Clint instead was a nice touch, especially since Emily didn't recognize it as such. Anyway, I know I said I was going to do a sort of epilogue to this, but I think this is a good place to end. That's not to say I won't do one at some later date, but for now, this is it. So a big thanks to all of you, especially to those who've stuck with me and Emily from the very beginning. And a big shout out to those who reviewed my last chapter, KnowInsight, princess2015, AngelfromBeyondBelow, and PurpleReader29. Thanks so much! You all rock!**


End file.
